


Let me be your killer king

by ViolettaValery



Series: Victory's Contagious [3]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Dark, Exhibitionism, Handprint, M/M, Possessiveness, Public Claiming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 05:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20371105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/pseuds/ViolettaValery
Summary: Michael loves to show off that Alex belongs to him – loves it as much as he hates anyone’s gaze lingering too long on what is his.And Antarians love to look at Alex, and Alex loves it when they look.





	Let me be your killer king

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all asked for more, and my muse cooperated! Sorry this is so short - this is all the inspiration I had, but I hope it's at least a little satisfying! 
> 
> Title from Panic! at the Disco's "Victorious"

The first time Alex had stepped foot into the Antarian court, it had been Michael leading him onto the dais beside him and proudly introducing his people to their new prince. Now, months later, Michael still loves to show off that Alex belongs to him – loves it as much as he hates anyone’s gaze lingering too long on what is his. 

And Antarians love to look at Alex, and Alex loves it when they look.

There are those who are happy to prostrate themselves before him, barely daring to gaze up in in awe at the human who has earned his place on the throne beside their prince. A warlike people, they know him as a warrior who fought for the other side and almost brought it victory, and they give him more respect than his purple hearts ever earned him from humans.

He likes them well enough.

Then there are those who believe he _survives _Michael. They know Antarian sexual appetites to be voracious and even ravenous, and they look up with respect at the human who bravely bears their prince’s savagery and holds his head high as he wears Michael’s bruises. They bow when he passes, offering respect to a human who steps among them without fear. 

He likes those better.

And then there are those who look with pity at their prince’s human prize, perching upon Michael’s lap and patiently bearing his attentions. Michael kisses bruises into Alex’s neck when they look too long, and Alex allows it with a put-upon expression. He watches their gazes fill with shame and flit away, drinking in their pity like the sparkling wine that Michael tips into his mouth from a gold-encrusted goblet.

He likes those best. 

Michael, smitten, has never been able to deny Alex this pleasure. But Alex can feel, through the handprint beneath his shirt, the spike of jealousy as the gaze of a courtier lingers, tracing the muscles of his soldier’s body. Some even dare to look at him with desire, though they are smart enough to do it only when Michael cannot see.

He knows the bruises they see are not unexpected – any Antarian will leave marks on what is _his. _

But the first time he steps into court with Michael’s handprint visible on his skin, utter silence follows, then a sea of shocked murmurs. It is not Alex’s first, but it is the first that they can see, a hand over his throat. Michael had pressed down and squeezed, and with the mark on Alex’s skin, he’d been able to feel Alex slip away into darkness.

A bruise is possession, but a handprint is _intimacy. _It is not a mark left, it is a wall destroyed between two beings, and no other lover has worn Michael’s. Now, the court stands statue-still, eyes fixed on the curve of his throat that Michael so loves as they stare at the _human_ who carries Michael’s vulnerability written into his skin.

None of them know what came to pass in the final moments before Antar took Earth. The truth of Michael’s precarious position in that final battle would have threatened his standing among a people enamored of war, so all they know is the truth of Alex’s prowess in the lengthy conquest.

They stare more now, not less, oscillating between fear of their ruler and desire for his remarkable human, and Alex feels Michael’s jealousy flood the bond between them. It grows with every glance, every word, every passing touch, until he can feel nothing else.

He turns away from Michael, rolling his eyes, and gazes out at the crowded court beneath them. Antarian culture has few taboos about staring and none about putting bodies on display, and there is a shocking nonchalance to the way they drape fabric over themselves as if it’s an afterthought. Now, the riot of bare skin strikes him with inspiration.

“Mark me,” he demands that night.

Michael offers no protest that Alex already bears his mark and instead obliges happily by leaving another one over Alex’s heart.

“Again,” Alex demands. “I want your mark on every inch of my skin.” He feels how much Michael wants this too, the jealousy abating in favor of an endless _mine mine mine _as he presses a glowing hand to Alex’s ribs.

Alex lets his legs drop open further, and Michael settles easily between them while marking the insides of his thighs. The kisses never stop as Michael opens him with the fingers of one hand while continuing to mark his chest.

Alex is used to pain, and sex with Michael is never gentle, so it takes his lust-addled brain a while to recognize that it comes from Michael’s hands. He cannot keep a gasp from falling out of him when he does, because Michael’s touch _burns. _

Michael frowns down at him. “Alex?”

“I said, _mark me,_” he demands furiously. He claws at the sheets as Michael sets his shoulder aflame, this mark burning even more than the last. 

He forgets that the mark means that Michael feels _everything. _

Michael pulls back. “It’s hurting you,” he says, frowning again.

Alex grabs his hand and presses it to the only unmarked skin left on his chest. “Don’t you _dare _stop.”

“Did it always hurt?” Michael asks instead.

Alex shakes his head. It clicks, suddenly. “It hurts more with every mark.”

Michael moves to pull back. “I don’t think we’re meant to leave this many,” he says. It’s the most overtly concerned Alex has ever seen him, and Alex grabs his arm to pull him closer again.

“I meant it,” he says. “Every inch. _Do it._”

Michael looks like he wants to argue, concern warring with his knowledge of what Alex can endure. Alex meets his eyes with an unyielding glare.

Michael pulls him into his lap and holds him upright with either a hand or his powers, Alex isn’t sure, while his other hand marks Alex’s back, his buttocks, the backs of his thighs, thrusting into him all the while. The pain dims a little, and Alex realizes Michael is probably sharing some of it through their bond, just as he pushes his own arousal into Alex. Normally, their shared arousal would be enough to tear his orgasm from him, but now, with his skin alight, he’s only half-hard as Michael takes him. All he can do is cling to him, nails and teeth biting into skin as Michael marks him and fucks him and then fills him until he’s Michael’s inside and out.

Finished, Michael lets him collapse onto the bed, and he thinks that he must look like some kind of glittering glowstick as he lies there. His body burns, but pleasure thrums beneath his skin like a cooling balm, pushed along their bond by Michael.

Michael’s mouth finds his cock, coaxing it to hardness with all the tricks he knows. Soon, Alex feels overwhelming arousal flood him as Michael’s alien stamina makes itself known, and Michael’s hand works them both. _Everything _floods through the bond – pleasure and possessiveness, hints of concern and admiration and reverence and – _love, _a dark flame burning in his soul.

Their climax comes simultaneously, as it usually does when they are linked, coating Alex’s glowing skin with the evidence of it.

A hint of arousal still buzzes at the back of their bond as Michael collapses beside him, and Alex wonders if Michael will want to go a third time, though he fails to see how he could be any more _Michael’s _than he is now.

“What was all that for?” Michael asks from beside him. 

They are so tightly bonded that the flashes of each other’s lives come, unbidden and unstoppable. Michael can see his pain (childhood in Roswell, his father, the military, a lost limb) but also his pleasure (the joys of victory, the satisfaction of cracking a complex code, his by former lovers). He sees flashes of Michael’s memories, too, a life of conquest, a long string of lovers who have never born his mark, a childhood honing his powers, his first victory.

And so Alex puts the answer into a little box and tucks it into the back of his mind.

“Don’t look,” he says. 

…..

The latest fads of Antarian fashion take to an extreme even their nonchalance for putting bodies on display: floor-length gowns of sheer material. Men and women both alternate between embroidered gold, silver, and pearls artfully placed to leave at least _something _to the imagination as they cover themselves in fabric from head to toe.

Alex hardly follows fashion – though he cannot help but _notice _when changes occur at court – but when Isobel had shown him the latest style and her plans to wear it for a ball, it had been the start of an idea that last night’s flash of inspiration solidified.

He commissions [a sheer black robe](https://signoraviolettavalery.tumblr.com/post/186410688410/themakeupbrush-elie-saab-fw-2019-couture), painstakingly embroidered with snaking spirals of black and gold, and a matching prosthetic leg of gold and gunmetal. He foregoes any accessory that might mask any part of his body and directs the seamstresses not to bother tactfully positioning the embroidery.

He _motivates _them to finish in a day and a night, and the next evening, he lines his eyes with kohl and wears a gold hoop in his ear. He steps into the hall with his head held high and he puts himself on display for the entire court.

He knows they see all of him beneath the single layer of silk-soft fabric. He watches their eyes slide over every inch of glowing skin and freeze, transfixed.

He hears a glass shatter as Michael drops the one he’s holding and an expensive vintage stains the marble floor.

Michael pulls him in for a kiss, and the bond between them overloads like a circuit, rendering Michael’s powers haywire and exploding all the lights in the throne hall. They blow out simultaneously, followed by a gust of wind like in some Victorian sensation novel, until the only thing lighting the vast space is Alex’s glowing skin. 

Everyone’s eyes are fixed on the two of them, standing within the small circle of light, and Michael faces his subjects with a steely glare.

“Let it be known,” he says. “This man is mine, forever.”

It could be a curse, or a fairytale ending. It might be both. 

Into the silence that follows Michael’s words, Alex says “And he is mine.” He turns towards Michael, and in that moment, he _knows _what he can do.

His hand glows with the same light as Michael’s does when he uses his powers. It illuminates Michael’s shocked face as Alex raises it, but does not stop him from easily parting his half-buttoned shirt to let Alex burn a mark into his chest.

Alex learns later that only those with royal blood in their veins possess the powers that Michael and his siblings wield. And so, when his hand begins to glow, the entirety of the vast throne hall falls to their knees before the human who has earned the right to be their king.

Now, though, Alex stands tall, and knows only that he is the only one among them who has never knelt.


End file.
